


I'll try to talk refined

by acetheticallyy (judesstfrancis)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Asexual Character, Implied Sex-Averse Character, M/M, Touch-Starved, ghost!gerry, my working title for this was pride and prejudice hand clench so. do with that what u will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judesstfrancis/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: No one ever expects the alleged ghost haunting their place of work to be real. No one ever expects said ghost to be oddly very charming, either. Sometimes, though, things just happen.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 51
Kudos: 175





	I'll try to talk refined

**Author's Note:**

> idk what I’m doing here actually, this is not at all what I intended to be posting. I have three other things I was supposed to finish first. u can blame robin, both for the fact that this idea burrowed its way so deep in my brain that I just HAD to write it and for the fact that it turned out so nicely. as always, she has the best ideas for everything
> 
> the only disclaimer I have for this is that I AM 22 I DID graduate college and I AM going back for more sadly—so if any part regarding higher education is inaccurate or vague it’s bc I simply didn’t care enough to go in detail. it’s not the important part anyway. cheers!

Jon would like to start by saying that he has nothing against haunted locations. Most of the time, the places that people claim to be haunted fully deserve it anyway. Abandoned asylums, houses rife with a history of murder and kidnapping and deceit, pretty much any historical location that tries to hide its secrets under a layer of education and thinly veiled nationalism—all places entirely deserving of the treatment. Sometimes it doesn’t even take that; sometimes places just feel _wrong_. That’s all perfectly understandable.

All this being said, there was no way in hell that the coffee shop Jon baristas at for just above minimum wage is haunted unless Jon has somehow missed his own passing. It’s not old enough, not enough people come in for it to feel _wrong_ or be the sight of some grisly murder, and it has absolutely no notoriety whatsoever. The sign on the storefront just says “coffee.” For all anyone knows, they could just be a couple of ten-year-olds playing at adult, serving plastic scones on top of flimsy, laminated napkins.

That of course does not stop any of his coworkers from abandoning him entirely because they could have _sworn_ they saw something lurking in the doorway to the backroom during their opening shift and they didn’t feel safe anymore. It takes exactly two months and six days for Jon to be left running the store all on his own with nothing but a twice monthly visit from the store’s owner to assure him that he’s still getting paid and to see that things are still running as smoothly as they can with one barely over minimum wage employee running everything on his own and an average of two or three customers per day.

How they stay in business, Jon has no idea, but it keeps him afloat while he finishes his graduate’s degree online and he’s never really got on with any of his coworkers anyway so it’s not like he minds being alone.

Of course, if you ask any of his previous coworkers, he’s _not_ alone, but Jon is usually of the opinion that if his name tag mysteriously goes missing it’s because he lost it at home, or if the cash drawer shoots open it’s because the register is old and he forgot to close it all the way, or if he sees a shadow lurking in the entryway to the backroom it’s because he hasn’t turned the lights on yet and there’s a stack of old, empty coffee boxes in there standing about a mile high.

None of it _means_ anything, except that people are much more receptive to paranormal explanations even when the easiest, most plausible one is almost always that people are simply forgetful.

However, everything does, unfortunately, have its breaking point.

For Jon, it goes like this:

It’s a typical Tuesday night close. He’s alone, as always, and the lights flicker weakly overhead, begging to be turned off and given a break for the night. It might be time to change the bulbs soon, he thinks, or maybe have someone in to take a look at the fuse box, but the store owner won’t be back for another two weeks and despite being the only one in the store Jon _still_ hasn’t gotten a raise so he doesn’t really think it’s any of his business, anyway. If the lights go out, it’s not like anyone really comes in. He’ll get paid to sit in the dark and write ten-page research papers, it doesn’t matter to him.

As he’s about to reach for the register to count out the cash drawer— _why_ he does this when he’s well aware that the total hasn’t changed at all from the day before, he’s not sure—it slowly slides open, almost on demand. Jon shakes his head. Faulty lights _and_ a register that never wants to stay closed unless you practically slam it shut. It really is a wonder how the place manages to stay in business.

Counting the money at the end of each day is always a sad, repetitive affair. It’s just as well that the lights finally give up and go out just as he removes the drawer from the register. He’s not going to sit and count however few bills happen to be in there by the light of his cell phone screen. This much, at least, can wait until morning; it’s not like there’s anyone there to tell him any different.

The drawer slams shut of its own accord. Jon sighs, squinting into the dark as he fumbles at the keys, trying to get it back open so he can put the money back in until morning. When he finally hits the right key, the drawer refuses to budge. Trying to force it open proves even less fruitful, and Jon resigns himself to having to lock the whole thing in the safe in the backroom, opting to save wrestling with the ancient machinery for when it’s still daylight out and he can actually see more than seven inches in front of him.

He gets his things in order first, throwing his personal items into his bag and making sure he hasn’t misplaced anything before turning to head into the backroom. Just as he approaches the doorway, something shoots out and dislodges the door stopper. The door itself is swiftly pulled shut with a distinctive slam, the unmistakable click of the lock following soon after.

O- _kay_. To be quite honest, Jon was off the clock five minutes ago. This isn’t really his problem anymore. So he throws the cash drawer with it’s very meager earnings underneath one of the coffee pots and calls it a day. He’s not dealing with any of this unless he’s being paid.

It’s not a breaking point until it is. Because as Jon locked the door and headed home for the night, the only thing on his mind was getting some sleep so he could be ready in the morning for when he had to open up the shop at the same he had an online meeting with one of his professors. But in the light of day, with his alarm blaring in his ears much too quickly for his liking, he realizes a few things.

The door to the backroom only locks from the outside. And the vents usually cause a draft that makes the door swing _open_ , not shut. And the door didn’t look like it had been pushed, really, or like it had just swung inward with a breeze, but like it had been _pulled._ The pulling on its own he can chalk up to a faulty observation, maybe—it was dark, his eyes were playing tricks on him, he was seeing shadows where there were none.

But all of it together? The door being _pulled_ , with enough force for the resulting slam to echo through the building, the door _locking_ , the way that the door stopper looked like maybe it had been _kicked_ …that’s all pretty hard to ignore. Jon comes to the conclusion at the exact moment his feet hit the floor: there was someone in the store with him last night.

He still doesn’t think that someone was a _ghost_ , it still doesn’t make any sense, but. There had to have been _someone_. And that doesn’t sit well with him.

The lights are already on the next day, when he comes in. It’s more than a little unnerving—Jon’s already convinced himself that someone’s hiding away in the backroom while he works, watching his every move, it’s not like he needs the extra help. But when he takes a sweep of the store, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. If there was someone there, it looks like they’ve already left.

Everything is exactly as it should be. The backroom is empty, foreboding stack of empty coffee boxes sitting exactly where they always are. The door stopper is sitting neatly on top of the trash can, just like normal. The cash drawer is back inside the register and, when Jon checks, the money is wholly untouched.

Look, Jon’s not exactly about to get mad at or report a homeless person for seeking refuge in what is, as far as anyone can tell, most likely an abandoned store front. It had freaked him out a little initially, sure, but everything was fine and taken care of, and whoever it was had clearly left the place in good enough condition that Jon wasn’t about to lose his job, so it’s not like he had anything to complain about.

Everything was exactly as it should be. Until it wasn’t.

Because when Jon turns to clean out the coffee pot halfway through the day, it’s gone. Nowhere to be found, until he turns, and it is suddenly sitting on top of the lone table in the store lobby. Less than six hours ago, Jon had been convinced that he was being watched. Soon after, he’d let himself believe that it was simply someone in need of shelter for the night that had been afraid of getting caught. Now he was pretty sure someone was pulling an elaborate joke on him.

He’s never called the store owner before, despite it being the only non-emergency service contact number posted up for reference in the backroom, but he thinks if someone is going to be breaking into the store at regular intervals just to drive him mad, now’s as good a time as any. Especially if, as he suspects, it’s one of his old coworkers trying to get back at him for something perfectly inane and wildly unimportant. Jon really doesn’t have time for this, especially considering he has two full-length research reports due this week.

When he gets to the backroom there’s a shadow in the doorway. He blinks, lifting his head until he’s staring at it directly. The shadow _should_ disappear, replaced by the regular stack of boxes that he’d no doubt seen from the corner of his eye and misjudged what it was.

The shadow doesn’t disappear. Instead of a stack of boxes there’s a tall, thin white man leaning against the door frame with Jon’s name tag pinched between two tattooed fingers. Jon looks down to see that it is indeed no longer pinned to his shirt collar.

“Well, it took you long enough,” the man says. “Been wondering when you’d finally react. Most people just leave after the register thing happens enough times.”

Perhaps stupidly, Jon’s first reaction is to snatch the name tag back. He promptly drops it as a violent shiver travels up his arm and settles itself deep in his chest. The man’s fingers wave at him from where they’re sticking out through the palm of his hand.

Well, what do you know. Maybe it _is_ haunted.

“Right.” Jon pulls his hand back, slowly. It’s more unpleasant than he expected, feeling someone else’s hand slide right out of your own, shifting through bone and muscle and vasculature as it exits the skin. Maybe he should’ve expected it to be more unpleasant. “Ghost?”

The man snorts. “Gerry, actually. But ghost too, yeah.”

“Interesting. Why here?”

Gerry shrugs. “Dunno. Always been here.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Really? The whole time?”

“Probably not the _whole_ time, but most of it. You really didn’t notice?”

Technically, he had. He had also just been operating under the assumption that everything he’d noticed had a perfectly logical, _human_ explanation. “Not really? I mean the register, sure, but it’s old. Saw you standing in the doorway a few times, I suppose, but I always thought it was just the boxes.”

“The boxes look like a human man?”

Jon shrugs. “Everything looks like a human man if you walk by it fast enough.”

Gerry doesn’t seem to have any response to that. For a minute, they just stare at each other.

“So you’re…stuck here?”

“Hadn’t really thought of it,” Gerry admits, “but I suppose I am. S’far as I know, at least.”

Interesting. Jon squints, suddenly. He notices Gerry’s eyes widen in response. “You’re not trying to kill me, are you?”

The question takes him by surprise. “What? Of course not.”

“You have to understand my reluctance to believe that, considering.”

A harsh bark of laughter springs forward from Gerry’s lips. “What, the coffee pot, the door slamming? That all seemed threatening to you? Just a bit of fun, honest. Actually was hoping it would get someone to _notice_ me, for once—gets boring here on my own, you know? Wasn’t _trying_ to scare anyone off, just didn’t know how else to do it.”

“And you didn’t think to try just…I don’t know, showing up?”

“People have to _want_ to see me, Jon.” Jon flinches a little at the mention of his name, forgetting for a minute that Gerry had stolen his name tag—probably _had been_ stealing it this whole time, actually. Of course he knew Jon’s name. “Up until now, they’ve been too afraid to.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Jon mumbles under his breath.

Gerry gives him a look. “You seemed pretty terrified this morning, if I remember.”

“I thought you were a _person_.” Gerry gestures towards the full length of his body with one casual hand, raising his eyebrows like he’s just heard something extremely unimpressive. “A _live_ person. Thought you had broken in, or something, watching me. Doors slamming shut from the inside when you think you’re alone in a building is more than a little unsettling, opening the cash register for no reason isn’t.”

“Says _you_. Your coworkers aren’t here anymore.”

“ _They_ thought you were a ghost. Correctly, I suppose. I always thought this place didn’t have enough going for it to be properly haunted, so it didn’t occur to me to worry about it.”

The laugh Gerry gives then is disbelieving, slightly amused. “Really? That’s a little dismissive, don’t you think?”

Jon shrugs. “Hauntings usually have more to do with feelings than anything, most of the time. Didn’t feel haunted to me.”

Gerry’s looking at him like he thinks Jon is a particularly difficult puzzle to solve; one of those ones with the edges that simply slot together instead of the interlocking pieces. A beat of silence passes. Jon shifts to grab his name tag from the floor, debating on fixing it back onto the collar of his shirt before opting to just drop it into his pocket.

“You said you were stuck here?” he asks suddenly.

“Said I didn’t know,” Gerry responds, “but yeah.”

“Right,” Jon says, deciding. “Well if you’re going to be here, you could at least help me mind the shop while I work on a few assignments.”

Despite himself, Jon finds himself enjoying Gerry’s company. It’s easy to fall into a companionable bickering, arguing over what proper grammar is as Gerry reads over his shoulder and shouting for him to turn the coffee pot off before it burns and they have to waste another box without a single customer coming in to buy any. The one time a customer does stop in, Jon forgets himself, already used to looking to Gerry to ask him to get something while he’s finishing up with something else. Gerry appears to find it spectacularly amusing, watching the woman take her cappuccino from the counter with an air of bewilderment as, to her account, the lone worker in the store had asked the air around him to fill an order and it had simply made itself. Notably, she does not leave a tip.

“She thinks you’re crazy, Jon,” Gerry remarks, still laughing over the encounter. “Christ, you’ve only known me for an hour and a half, have you forgotten already that I’m dead?”

“Crazy or not, I run the whole shop by myself and I’m barely making anything over what any entry level employee would. She could give me _something_.”

“Could give _me_ something,” Gerry corrects. “I’m doing your job, here, you’re just on your computer.”

“I’m _working_ ,” Jon insists, “and as you’ve so helpfully reminded me, you’re dead. Can’t do anything with money on your own.”

Gerry bats his eyelashes at him, nothing more than a joke but it makes Jon’s heart stutter in his chest just the same. Right, the ghost haunting his place of work is _cute_ , sue him. He’s not used to this much positive attention being directed at him; he’ll get over it.

“Jon,” Gerry starts, a horrible teasing note taking up residence in his voice. “Does this mean you’re thinking about buying me things? Because I do have ideas and I do have _very_ expensive tastes.”

Jon wants so badly to shove Gerry’s face right into the sad little coffee cakes sitting on the display stand on the counter, but the chill from when he’d tried to rest an elbow on Jon’s shoulder earlier and landed it inside his collarbone instead is still there to remind him of Gerry’s intangibility. He settles for throwing a seldom used paper cup at him, watching it sail right through the eye tattooed on the hollow of his throat.

“How does that work?”

“How does what work?” Gerry bends over, grabbing the cup off the ground and tossing it into the garbage can under the sink.

“How can you touch things, but you can’t touch me, and I can’t throw things at you when you’re being insufferable?”

“Aw, do you _want_ to touch me?”

Jon rolls his eyes, glancing over at the clock to see how long it is until he needs to start closing up. “Answer the question, Gerry.”

Gerry grins again, wide enough to show teeth. “I don’t know.”

Jon groans. It’s been like this _all day_. He has a question, something about something Gerry’s mentioned, or something he’s observed, and Gerry just _doesn’t know_. “Actually, or are you just saying that because you know it’s annoying?”

“No, actually,” Gerry responds, dropping the teasing grin. “Don’t know a lot about this at all, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

Well, it’s not like Jon had really known a lot about ghosts to begin with. It’s going to bother him, sure, but it’s not like he _has_ to know. Not right this second, at least. He _will_ want to know about it at some point, but that’s something he can figure out later. Maybe it’s something they can figure out together.

“S’alright,” he says. “I don’t know much about ghosts, either.”

“ _Obviously_.”

Jon throws another paper cup at him.

The rest of the day passes in much the same fashion, Jon wasting more paper cups than he thinks he should but it’s not like anyone else was going to use them. He surprises himself by being a little disappointed when he locks up, waving through the window into the darkness before he begins his walk home.

“How do you know you’re stuck here?” Jon asks the next evening, apropos of nothing.

Gerry pauses in the middle of switching off the mostly unused coffee pot. “What?”

Jon busies himself with closing up the store, flipping the sign in the window and stacking the three lonely chairs back into the corner of the lobby. He feels profoundly ridiculous for even asking but, well. He’d had _fun_ with Gerry, yesterday, once he’d gotten over himself. Jon isn’t used to having good company—he isn’t used to good company wanting to be around _him_. He doesn’t want to go home and be by himself again, even if he’ll be back in the shop soon enough. Maybe it’s a little sad that he’s let himself get so lonely that now he’s nervous about asking a literal ghost if he wants to hang out more, but here he is.

“I mean. Have you ever tried to go anywhere else?”

Methodically rinsing out the old coffee pot gives Gerry a minute to think about the question. It makes Jon’s head spin in circles, watching him interact with everyday objects so easily when his hands just slide right through Jon’s anatomy any time they brush against him on accident.

“Suppose I haven’t,” Gerry answers. “I just sort of…was _here_. Never thought about it.”

“Well.” Jon clears his throat. Here it is. Now or never, he supposes. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Gerry’s face transforms with a grin. “Inviting me home already? Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”

“I’m asexual,” Jon says, matter-of-fact, “and you’re a ghost. I don’t think anything like that would be happening either way.”

“Right, bad joke.” Gerry cringes a little. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.”

Gerry shakes his head, putting up one hand to signal the end of Jon’s brushing it off. “Don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to in years, and besides that I actually like you. Being dead obviously doesn’t freak you out, but I don’t want to make up for that by being a prick.”

It takes a bit for Jon not to let himself get stuck on _I actually like you_ , but he thinks he does a rather decent job of brushing it off and acting like it doesn’t have any effect on him whatsoever. “You’ve known me for a couple days now, I think if anyone’s the prick, you know it’s going to be me.”

“You throw those cups at me out of love and I know it.” Love might be a bit strong, so early, but Jon sure hopes he doesn’t know it nonetheless.

“So,” Jon says, clearing his throat once more. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Gerry pretends to think about it for a moment, twisting a coffee stirrer between his fingers. “Sure, why not. If it turns out I can.”

As it turns out, he can.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” Jon says, flicking on the lights. “Don’t really have company over often.”

“Haven’t been anywhere but the backroom of your coffeeshop in months, maybe even a year or two,” Gerry reminds him. “It’s perfect.” He illustrates this point by phasing right through the stack of DVD’s piled in front of his television and then, somehow, perching on the edge of his coffee table right after. Jon gets the feeling it’s going to take a while for his head to stop spinning over the apparent intricacies of Gerry’s corporeality.

It’s a little weird, playing host for someone who isn’t technically alive. Jon accidentally keeps offering things—food, water, tea—only to remember himself seconds after the question leaves his mouth, shaking his head along with Gerry’s barely concealed laughter.

Jon doesn’t know what to do when the sun goes down, either. Does he offer him a place to…sleep? Dissociate? Whatever ghosts do?

“Do you—are you staying?” he settles on asking.

Gerry shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I could leave? If you want? Might be a bit weird to have me just…sitting around, while you’re asleep. I understand if that’s uncomfortable.”

It actually sounds kind of nice, Jon surprises himself by thinking. He’s romanticizing things, he knows, as he is wont to do, but the idea of having someone to look after things while he’s asleep—to look after _him_ —it’s nice. As bad as he is at living with other people, Jon’s always been worse at living on his own. Sometimes he forgets how nice it is, just to have someone there; just to share space.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Gerry nods in response, taking it upon himself to flop rather inelegantly across the length of Jon’s sofa, thick soled boots dangling over the arm.

That’s probably that, Jon thinks. He makes quick work of getting ready for bed, a little nervous as he steps out of the bathroom with wet hair and worn-out pajamas. There’s a part of him that wants to avoid re-entering the living room entirely, but Gerry is a guest, ghost or no, and it strikes him as impolite to just leave a guest alone in your living room without at least saying goodnight.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, folding the opposite arm over his chest so that his other hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Do you, um…do you need anything? I don’t know if you sleep, or…” He trails off, feeling profoundly stupid for even asking as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his pajama bottoms and tries not to hunch in on himself too much.

The question doesn’t seem to bother Gerry much. He rises a little off the sofa, just enough to lean his chin against the cushions so he can see Jon where he stands just at the opening of the hallway. “No, I’m alright.” His lips form a smile around his words. “Not much to be done for sleep, I’m afraid. I’ll just keep myself busy.”

Jon nods, not quite sure what should come next. “Right,” he says. “Well, help yourself to…anything. I assume you can figure out how to work a television.” Jon cringes, aware of how unintentionally frustrated the statement had come out. He doesn’t mean to sound that way—hardly ever does, really, it’s just the nerves. He handles it the only way he knows how: by barreling on without waiting for an interjection. “Um, books are in the room, with me. I sleep with the door open, so just…pop in, I guess, if you need one.”

Gerry just looks at him, arms crossed over the back of the couch, cheek resting against the space where his right hand curls over his left elbow. It strikes Jon as uncomfortable, the way the rings adorning his long, slender fingers press into his skin, already leaving a red mark. Any other time, he might point it out—just blurt out the observation, however out of place it may seem be damned. As it is, Gerry’s gaze keeps him pinned in place in the doorway. There’s something there, something he doesn’t want to talk about that makes him feel… _something_. Something he most decidedly does not want to talk about.

So he says nothing at all. As he turns towards his bedroom, he hears Gerry call out. “Goodnight, Jon.” Jon doesn’t know why his throat feels so tight when he echoes the sentiment.

When Jon wakes, it isn’t to the sight of Gerry perched in the armchair by his bedroom window like he had, embarrassingly, drifted off to sleep imagining. It’s not even to the sight of Gerry flipping through channels on the television in his living room or standing around looking at the contents of his flat, trying to find some deeper understanding of Jon’s personality just in the magazines sitting on his coffee table. He does find one of his books sitting folded open over the arm of his sofa. Jon’s not sure why, but he finds it oddly thrilling.

No, Jon doesn’t wake to the sight of Gerry at all, a fact that he tries very hard not to find disappointing. He does find him, eventually. In the kitchen, of all places.

Gerry notices his presence before he can announce himself. “Thought I was going to have to resort to throwing things at you to get you out of bed. Forgot to set your alarm last night, I think.”

Jon does not respond. His attention is still steadily on the pan in Gerry’s hand, full of what looks like eggs, peppers, and potatoes. Jon’s never had anyone cook for him before. He’s not even sure he knew that he had any of that in his fridge.

“You can sit,” Gerry says. “It’s your kitchen.”

“You can’t even eat,” Jon responds, dumbly.

The stove clicks as Gerry turns it off and removes the pan from the burner. “Tell you what Sherlock Holmes, you are unbelievable,” he says, joking evident in his tone. “I don’t sleep, either. But you still offered me a place for it.”

If there’s a connection between the two things, Jon can’t find it. He says as much. “That’s not the same thing. I offered you something you didn’t need; you’re doing something for me that I _do_ need. It’s—”

“You tried to do something for me,” Gerry says, grabbing a hot pad so he can set the pan down on the dining table, “and now I’m trying to do the same. I don’t always have to get something out of it.”

Jon sits finally, if only out of politeness. He’s still a touch confused. “You haven’t gotten anything out of it at all, yet. In either case.”

“Yes I have.”

Jon squints. Gerry rolls his eyes as he falls into the chair opposite Jon’s, pushing a plate towards him insistently. Despite himself, Jon takes it, digging in even as he stubbornly carries on with his argument. “Gerry, you don’t _sleep_ , I offered you something you didn’t need. You didn’t get anything out of it. And you’re certainly not getting anything out of _this_.”

“That’s not really the point.”

“Then what is?”

Gerry shrugs, looking away and pushing against the metal hoop curled around his lip with his thumb. It strikes Jon as a nervous gesture, and he wonders why. “You cared enough to ask,” Gerry says finally. He’s still looking way. “I’m real enough to you that you care enough to ask. That’s it.”

Something tells Jon the moment is supposed to be emotional. He’s not quite sure he’s ready to get into that. “Of course you’re real,” he says instead. “Hallucinations don’t usually threaten to steal tips from me.” And Jon’s never been _funny_ , but it startles a laugh out of Gerry all the same—gets him to stop avoiding eye contact and fidgeting with his jewelry, at least, and for now that has to be enough. Because Jon _does_ care, always has, he’s just never known how to say it. Maybe if Gerry can tell so easily after only knowing him for so long, he’s better at it than he thinks.

Jon isn’t so used to letting people care about _him_ , though, is the thing. He has to test their limits, see where their kindness ends. Sometimes it feels like he spends half his life just waiting for the other shoe to drop. People are going to get tired of him eventually, that’s just how it works, so he might as well figure out _why_ on his own terms. It hurts less that way.

That’s why, two weeks later, when Gerry is still stubbornly _there_ —doing nice things for him without even asking, providing comfort without even realizing—it’s why Jon says, “I’m not so easy to get along with, you know.” Because if Gerry wants to make Jon his business, wants to continue acting suspiciously in the way a friend would, he might as well know what he’s getting into.

Gerry’s been looking over an essay for him, catching the little mistakes that have gone undetected by spellcheck, and he doesn’t look away from the laptop screen as he responds. “Yeah, could’ve guessed. You put me to work as soon as you met me. _Without pay_ , I might add. I’m thinking of starting a union.” At Jon’s silence, Gerry finally looks up. Something he sees makes the teasing smirk drop off his face. He sighs. “Look, I’m not easy to get along with either. I’m _dead_. Scare most people off before they can even talk to me.”

“You never scared _me_.”

The smile resurfaces, this time softer. “Yeah, well, you’re different.” He looks back down, dragging his fingers along the laptop’s track pad in this focused way that Jon knows means he’s not actually reading. “Spend half my time complaining about the fact that I’m dead, too, so. Sure that would get annoying to deal with.”

Jon furrows his brow, confused. “You’ve never complained to me about it.”

Gerry shrugs, hunching closer to the laptop screen. “Suppose I don’t notice it so much when you’re around.”

All of a sudden, Jon feels a bit warm. Strange, considering it’s the dead of winter and “coffee” doesn’t have central heating.

Instead of addressing it, he asks, “so if you threw something at me, would it just go through?”

Gerry startles, straightening up at once in confusion at the sudden switch in conversation. “What?”

“Like that time I threw the cups at you and they just went through,” Jon elaborates, “would it do the same to me?”

“No? They’re real cups, Jon.”

“Yeah, and _you_ can normally touch real cups, too. No reason they should’ve gone right through you.”

The tension in Gerry’s shoulders disappears as he laughs. “I’m going to let you in on a secret, Jon: I do that on purpose.”

“ _What?_ You said you didn’t know! You promised!”

Jon has half a mind to be indignant, to argue, but the soft laughter suits Gerry much better than the weird, nervous energy from earlier. He finds that he’s alright with enduring a bit of teasing at his expense if it means Gerry gets to feel more sure of himself.

“To be fair, I don’t actually know why I can’t touch _you_ ,” Gerry allows. “Wasn’t lying about that one. Not my fault you asked me three questions in one.”

“If I ask you very nicely to stay tangible for me, will you let me hit you with a cup this time?”

“Maybe.”

“I think you deserve it, really.”

“Right, fine. Go ahead, I guess.”

Gerry very much does not let the paper cup smack dully into his shoulder like Jon asks, instead electing to let it sail all the way through until it lands, rather sadly, about three or four centimeters away from the bin. “Maybe you aren’t easy to get along with,” Jon declares, not really meaning it.

“We were made for each other,” Gerry responds, sounding a lot like he _does_ mean it.

It eats at Jon a little, after that. _To be fair, I don’t actually know why I can’t touch_ you. It doesn’t make any sense. Jon’s always been the one to approach things logically, and it really makes no logical sense that Gerry can seemingly turn his tangibility on and off at will in regards to absolutely everything _except_ him.

It’s not that it bothers Jon, exactly. He’s come to find the prickling cold sensation of Gerry’s limbs phasing through his own rather comforting, actually. A hand pokes through his shoulder to get his attention and he finds himself smiling more often than not before he turns to give Gerry his attention. It’s just that it doesn’t make _sense_. Gerry _should_ be able to touch Jon, just like everything else; that’s all it is.

One evening, sometime later when they’ve been around each other long enough to settle into something of a routine, Jon brings it up. They’re both just lounging, Gerry with his legs slung over top of Jon’s own— _inside_ of Jon’s own really, settled between the muscles just above the knees—and Jon doing his level best to keep his body completely rigid, trying not to disturb him.

“You can move, you know,” Gerry says absently, turning a page in one of the books he’s stolen off Jon’s shelves. “Doesn’t bother me—can’t feel it.”

For some reason, Jon feels very indignant about this fact. He’s adapted enough to find comfort in his friend’s ghostly touch, but Gerry apparently gets absolutely nothing from him—hasn’t this whole time. It’s not _fair_. “Do you…feel _anything?_ ” he asks.

Gerry shrugs, lowering his book and folding the pages over his fingers to keep his place. “Sometimes. When I actually _touch_ things, it’s…well, it’s a bit like I’m wearing gloves, but I know things are _there_. I can tell when something’s warm or cold or soft. This, it’s just…it’s comforting because I know that it’s _supposed_ to be, but it doesn’t…I don’t feel any of it.”

Somehow, Jon thinks this is worse. It would be better if he couldn’t feel anything at all. It would be better if he didn’t convince himself that this pseudo-physical touch was comforting just for the simple fact that it should have been, just for the simple fact that he was there and so was Jon and somehow the two things had become synonymous. “I’m sorry,” Jon says.

“Just as well. Wouldn’t want to be able to feel your bone marrow sliding all over my ankles, anyway.” Gerry speaks nonchalantly enough, resuming his reading without much preamble, but there’s a sadness there still. Jon can tell it hurts, even if he won’t admit it, and the way the knowledge sits in his chest leaves him feeling a little hollow for the next several hours.

For the next several days, really. Gerry can tell something’s bothering him, Jon knows, but he never brings it up. He does, however, make it a point to get Jon’s attention in less physical ways—tapping his boots loudly against the hardwood floors, stealing pens out of his hands, clearing his throat a little louder than normal. It hurts, a little, that Gerry’s come to the conclusion that Jon doesn’t want him to touch him at all, just because their conversation had left him feeling a bit sad.

Instead of trying to properly explain, he leans deliberately into Gerry’s space while they’re opening up the shop. Gerry flinches away the first few times, when he notices. Stubborn as ever, Jon presses on, letting his fingers pass through Gerry’s when they pass each other supplies, suppressing a shiver every single time. The shiver’s never been a bad thing, not even before he’d gotten used to the cold feeling that accompanied the contact, but he figures it wouldn’t be wise to leave it up to Gerry’s interpretation at the moment.

Eventually, Gerry takes the hint. “Alright,” he relents, “I get it. You don’t mind. I just thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

And Jon desperately wants to know what he means, always does really, but instead he swallows his pride and says, “I wasn’t upset because of you. I just—I hated that you had to _pretend_. I could tell it bothered you.”

Gerry swallows, brow furrowing for a moment. His jaw works as he thinks about what to say. “It’s not pretending. It is upsetting, yeah, because I wish I could—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I’m not pretending with you. When I said it was still comforting, even if I couldn’t feel anything, I meant it.”

The room grows oddly warm, again. Jon has to wonder if the store owner had finally called in to have a heater installed at some point over the weekend. It’s a little odd that it keeps kicking on every time Gerry says something that makes his heart kick double time in his chest. The power of coincidence, he supposes.

Jon still can’t let it go, though. He gives it some time to settle, first, waits until they’re both no longer beating themselves up over it. When he brings it up again, Gerry’s passing a plate to him to dry off, fingers tickling at his metacarpals when their fingers brush together.

“There has to be something,” he says suddenly.

Gerry’s brows pinch together, no doubt wondering what he means. “No, only the one plate, I’m afraid. I don’t really see the point in getting another dirty if I’m not even going to be able to use it properly.”

“No, sorry,” Jon says, shaking his head. “Sometimes I forget to say the things in my head out loud. You not being able to touch people,” he clarifies, “it doesn’t make sense.”

It makes Gerry tense a little, but not as much as it would have a couple days ago. Jon counts that as progress. “Maybe not. I always thought of it as not being able to touch things that were alive. I’m dead, so I can only touch things like me.”

“That’s stupid.”

Gerry smiles, looking oddly charmed at his bluntness despite it all. “That your professional opinion?”

“Yes. Can’t be true, it’s stupid.”

“Thought you didn’t know anything about ghosts,” he says, draining the water from the sink and drying off his hands. Jon wonders if he really has to dry them at all, or if it’s simply muscle memory. “How would you know what’s stupid or not?”

“I _don’t_ know anything about ghosts,” Jon concedes. “Know a bit about you, though. You’re way more alive than you think.”

 _That_ makes Gerry tense, more than just bringing up the topic had earlier. Jon flounders a bit, thinking he might need to apologize, when Gerry turns to face him, pulling his long, dark hair behind his ears and staring Jon straight in the eye. It makes him squirm, a little. He doesn’t hate it.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” Gerry asks.

Jon clears his throat a little nervously. “I’m not really in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” he answers. “You may be dead, technically, but I—not to me. You told me once that you don’t notice so much, when you’re around me. I don’t either.”

The look Gerry gives him then is one that Jon sort of wishes he could burn into the grooves of his brain. He doesn’t want to forget what Gerry Keay looks like, in that moment, standing in Jon’s kitchen with the same outfit as always—same thick soled boots and poorly dyed hair—looking for all the world like Jon might be the only one in it.

Once more, Jon clears his throat. “Yeah, so, um…like I said: stupid.”

“Right,” Gerry says, and the spell is broken as he huffs out a laugh and leads the two of them into the living area. Jon tries not to be too pleased with the way he doesn’t even hesitate when he stretches out his legs so that they bisect Jon’s abdomen when they find themselves on the sofa. “So…what then?”

“We can figure it out, I think,” Jon says, wishing more than anything that he could reach out a hand and lay it gently atop Gerry’s knee where it sticks out just above his hip. “It can’t be that hard.”

“We’re talking about ghost physics, here,” Gerry reminds him. “ _I_ don’t even know how it works.”

“Yes, well—” Jon reaches for the remote, ignoring the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with Gerry’s lack of body heat “—that _would_ be the point of figuring it out.”

Gerry doesn’t respond, and for a moment Jon thinks that’s it. He’s trying to scroll through Netflix fast enough that the automatic previews don’t have time to play while still being able to read the descriptions when Gerry finally does speak up, voice small. “What if it turns out I just can’t?” he asks, curling his knees into his chest and gripping at the fabric of his trousers so tightly Jon has to wonder if it hurts.

A knot forms in his throat. “It won’t,” he insists, having no idea if what he’s saying is the truth or a lie. He stretches a bit until his foot just barely merges with Gerry’s ankle.

“How do you know? I don’t—I can’t get my hopes up just to figure out it’s impossible.”

“I keep telling you. It’s stupid.”

The smile that forms on Gerry’s lips then isn’t quite _warm_ , but it’ll do. At the very least, he lets go of the death grip on his trousers and relaxes a little more into the sofa cushions. “Right, forgot. Professional opinion.”

It takes Gerry a while to be okay with reaching out with the intent to _really_ touch him. At first he’s always hesitant, absently reaching out to tap his shoulder before pausing inches away and closing his eyes like it’s easier to take the potential failure if he can’t see it happening. After a while, though, he gets used to it. Jon can still always tell when he’s reaching out with _intent_ as opposed to just passing a hand through to get him to look up from whatever’s occupying his time, but he supposes it’s important to differentiate between the two anyway, if they’re trying to figure out what makes him tangible and what doesn’t.

Jon is wiping down the near pristine counters of “coffee” just for something to do when, for the fourth time in about ten minutes, a hand passes through his shoulder. He knows it’s one of the latter touches, just something to get his attention, so he takes his time responding. When he turns to face Gerry, he swings the rag in his hands over one shoulder and crosses his arms. “Are you bored? Because you _can_ help me clean out the backroom like I asked three days ago.”

Gerry shakes his head, for some reason looking very distinctly like he’s told a sneaky joke and no one’s caught it just yet. “Just testing something, actually.”

“Can I ask what?”

Instead of responding right away, Gerry passes a hand through Jon’s shoulder again. He hums, sounding satisfied. “You get this cute little blush any time my hand goes through your shoulder, have you noticed?”

Jon does _not_ dignify the question with any sort of yes or no, instead turning back around to drain and refill the old coffeepot, deliberately ignoring the burn crawling up his neck. “You’re cold, it’s probably a defense mechanism.”

“Uh-huh,” Gerry agrees, sounding very much like he doesn’t actually agree at all. “You wanna know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“I think you like me.”

Jon almost chokes. Look, he’s not _wrong_ , he does like Gerry. In a multitude of ways, really, both in ways that are friendly and in ways that are very far from friendly at all, but if Gerry ever figures that out then _Jon_ is going to be the dead one. “I’d like you better if you cleaned out the backroom,” he says, trying not to sound quite so strangled.

“Sure, whatever.” Gerry leaves the room after passing a hand through Jon’s hair, attempting to ruffle up the strands and scatter them out of place. For the most part, it only succeeds in giving Jon a rather peculiar sort of brain freeze, but there, tickling at the edges of his hairline, a few of the strands fly outwards at the motion. When he turns, startled, the grin Gerry sends his way is absolutely blinding.

As it turns out, Gerry is a lot touchier than he has any right to be. Perhaps it’s something Jon should have expected, with how often he would find himself with a deep set chill in his bones because there was a hand _inside his shoulder_ , but nothing could have prepared him for how often Gerry reaches out now that he knows he _can_ touch.

The first time it comes, full and unwavering and unmistakably _there_ , Jon almost shatters his favorite coffee mug. He’s pulling it from the cabinet, standing on his toes so he can reach the shelf, when Gerry passes behind him and lays a hand lightly on the now exposed strip of skin at the small of his back. It’s still cold, but less so. That’s not why he fumbles the mug, though, almost jumping out of his skin at the contact.

Gerry’s hand presses against his skin, meeting resistance. Jon can feel the outline of each cool to the touch finger as they curl around his hip, tensing minutely as if Gerry, too, is shocked at the outcome. For a moment, that’s all there is. And then, so softly Jon thinks he could cry, Gerry’s fingers gently slide across the rest of the exposed area, slowly like he’s trying to map it out with only his touch, like he’s trying to commit it to memory in case it never happens again.

Jon’s never had a great deal of affectionate touches in his life. He’s never been handled with this much care, this much _wonder_ , like he is deserving of it simply because he is. He feels like someone’s struck a match and lit him on fire; like he’s burning from the inside out, an ache so beautiful settling deep into his chest that he wouldn’t even care if the whole world ended right then and there. As far as he’s concerned, he’s come out of this whole game the winner.

It keeps going, from there. Now, at the end of the night, when they’re both just lounging in the living room, Gerry kicks his legs out to rest in Jon’s lap and instead of sinking into the muscle and bone they provide a solid pressure over his thighs, eventually warming up with Jon’s body heat. He lets his fingers linger against Jon’s own for much longer than necessary when he passes off cups and silverware and boxes at work. Every time he passes by Jon, either when they’re in his flat or at “coffee” during the day, he finds an excuse to reach out—when he wants to announce his presence as he moves from one room to another, when he’s holding something in one hand and wants to make sure Jon doesn’t run into him because he doesn’t want it to spill…sometimes Gerry just helps himself to the space Jon is occupying, coming in from some other part of his flat—bathroom, kitchen, bedroom—and asking him something completely non sequitur, as if he’s just using it as an excuse to wrap a hand around his wrist or rest an elbow on his shoulder or knock one of his boots against his ankles.

One particularly memorable night, Gerry reaches across the dinner table and just… _grabs_ at Jon’s hand, running his thumb over his knuckles and tracing each finger from the tips of his fingernails to where they all join up with his palm. Jon almost stops breathing, with that one. It takes him a very long time to steady his hand enough to pick his fork up again, when Gerry lets go.

Needless to say, Jon develops a habit of anticipating these sort of touches, just to save himself from the embarrassment of stuttering so hard in the middle of a sentence that he starts choking. He doesn’t mean to tense up so much, or flinch away, but, well. He’s not _good_ at this.

It doesn’t take long for Gerry to catch on—never does, really, he just drags it out long enough for it to feel less awkward when it’s pointed out. Jon can’t tell if he appreciates it or if he wishes Gerry would just get it over with.

He comes in one night to steal another book from Jon’s shelf, like always, only this time he lingers. Instead of a teasing salute or a request to sit with him in the living room for a bit, he drops down on the corner of Jon’s bed. Before he even starts to reach out to shove at him, Jon’s breathing gets a little more shallow.

“Alright,” Gerry says, ruffling the pages of the book in his hand like he isn’t at all bothered. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Jon pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins and trying to make himself look as small and unassuming as possible. “About what?”

Gerry looks like he’s debating whether or not to throw his book at him. “This morning I barely nudged you to make sure you didn’t burn yourself on the stove and I thought you were going to _fall over_. You locked up so hard I thought there was something medically wrong with you.”

Jon flinches. “It’s…nothing, I—it’s nothing.”

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t convince Gerry in the slightest. “I think you and I both know that’s not the truth, Jon. Can you just talk to me? Please?”

Eyes squeezed shut, Jon takes a deep, shaky breath. “You keep… _touching_ me, and I know that’s what I wanted, b-but I can’t handle it, because—because every time you do, I feel more important than I am. Like—like for some reason that I can’t even begin to explain, you think I _deserve_ to feel that important. Like you… _care_ that I know you’re there, like you know what it—what it does for me, _to_ me, and I…I don’t know what to do with it. A-and I’m so afraid that if I—if I…” The words get caught in his throat. He suddenly feels very much like he might start hyperventilating. A hand curls around his own and he grasps at it like a lifeline, gripping so tightly that if Gerry weren’t dead he’d worry about leaving a bruise.

“What are you afraid of Jon?” Gerry whispers.

“I want more than I should,” he admits. “I always have. I’m never satisfied just… _having_ , I always want to take more. And I-I…when you grab my arm, or, or, put a hand on my shoulder to let me know you’re walking behind me, I just…I always want to lean into it. I always want to hold onto you, when we’re sitting together, to—to see what happens if _I_ do the same thing. If you’d lean into it, when I played with your hair, if—if you’d let me pull you closer. I _want_ it, but I _can’t_ , because…I know how I am. I’m not good at things like this, and—and if I _do_ that, then you’ll _know_ , and I’m—I’m so afraid that if you find out I like you, you’ll leave.”

Of all the reactions he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t dead silence. He’s just preparing himself for the possibility of Gerry never talking to him again when the hand clutched in his shifts and suddenly their fingers are tangled together. He opens his eyes to see a slow, easy smile spreading across Gerry’s lips. “Jon, I’ve got no reason to touch people. I never even cared, before, but I went along with this. For you. Because I _wanted_ to. Because it was _you_.”

Jon’s feels a little bit like he’s standing outside himself. His breath hitches in his throat. “A-are you—”

“I’ve already found out. Surprised you haven’t, yet.”

“So, you mean—?”

Gerry shakes his head with an exasperated little laugh, tugging on Jon’s hand until he slides across the mattress closer to where he sits. “Jon, you idiot, I _like_ you. What reason do I have to follow you around all the time? I could easily just stay at the shop at night, or find something else to do during the day and only come ‘round every now and again, but I don’t want to. I want to proofread your stupid essays, and brew shitty coffee that no one’s going to drink, and come home with you at night and listen to you pick apart documentaries on subjects you know nothing about. I _want_ you to pull me closer to you on the sofa, that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do this whole time. I thought I just needed to give you time to work yourself up to it.”

“You’re serious?”

“What, you think I was that scared of not being able to touch you just because we were _friends_?” Jon gets the distinct impression that he is very much being laughed _at_. He can’t find it in him to care. Between the hand in his, the knee digging into his shin, the soft, sweet look on Gerry’s face as he speaks, it doesn’t really matter all that much. “It would’ve killed me, to build up all that hope that I’d get to kiss you, only to find out that it never would’ve worked in the first place.”

_Huh?_

“Y-you want to kiss me?” No one’s ever told Jon, point blank like this, that they’d be interested in kissing him. That they’d be interested in _him_ , period, that they’d want to so badly they didn’t even want to get their hopes up. That it would _hurt_ , if they weren’t allowed. It all sort of makes him feel a little lightheaded.

Gerry shrugs, perhaps a bit hopelessly Jon thinks. The giddy laughter is still present in his voice when he speaks. “I mean— _yeah_. Have for a while. I really am surprised you couldn’t tell.” He sobers, then, seemingly remembering something. “Only if—only if you want to. You mentioned being asexual, before, and I know it’s a bit different, for everyone. If you’re not okay with that, then we don’t have to. Just this,” he says, squeezing Jon’s palm, “is fine. More than fine. Just you is…perfect, really.”

Jon doesn’t want to think about how that, that small kindness all on its own, has effectively broken him. He thinks maybe it should be kind of sad, and maybe it will feel that way, later, but for the moment all he has time to focus on is the way Gerry is sitting _right there_ , more solid than he’s ever been, _real_ , as always, promising Jon more care and consideration than he’s ever been able to let himself get used to. And _he wants to kiss him_.

And Jon wants to kiss him back.

He tugs at the hand in his, pulling it forward until Gerry’s forearm comes to rest against his knees. “May I?” he asks. Gerry nods.

The thing is, Jon’s always been more than a little fixated on Gerry’s tattoos, always wanted to trace along the outlines of the sketched out eyes, and now he has _permission_. He trails his fingers over the ones on his knuckles first, featherlight as if they were real eyes and he was being careful not to poke them. Gerry’s fingers tense, a little, accompanied by a barely-there gasp. Jon pauses, just for a moment, just long enough for Gerry to pull his hand away if he wants to. When he doesn’t, Jon continues.

It makes his head swim, how he’s able to push the sleeves of Gerry’s coat up his arms to expose more skin, when just a few weeks ago he couldn’t even imagine what Gerry would even feel like, let alone consider if his clothing would be considered part of him, if it would have the same rules of tangibility as everything else. But here he was anyway, trailing his fingers over the lines of the eye tattooed on the inside of Gerry’s elbow.

A thought occurs to him, rather suddenly. It causes his movements to stutter, applying just a touch more pressure than he had intended. Jon waits for the muscles under his hand to stop tensing and that’s all the hesitation he allows before he ducks his head and presses his lips there, right over the center of the tattoo where the pupil lies.

“Jon,” Gerry breathes. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard Gerry sound so breathless, all shaky and hesitant. He thinks he’d like to hear it again.

He looks up to the sight of Gerry sitting somehow closer, closer than he’s ever been, close enough that Jon almost bangs his head right into his chin before Gerry curls his free hand over Jon’s shoulder to guide him. Instead of injuring himself, Jon ends up with a hand twining through the ends of his hair and a look from Gerry so gentle and full of longing that Jon isn’t sure how exactly he’s supposed to go on.

“Jon?”

Jon’s lost his ability to form words, he thinks. Instead of responding, he moves. His hand is trembling as he lays it to rest on Gerry’s neck, thumb brushing against the inky black eye on the hinge of his jaw. The second he makes contact, Gerry’s lips part, as if of their own accord. Jon’s tilting his head forward before he even has time to consider it, bumping their noses together and all but nuzzling against Gerry’s skin.

Despite how close he is, despite the intention, Gerry still hesitates. “Okay?”

He thinks he nods a little more desperately than he needs to. He thinks he doesn’t care how he looks, because suddenly Gerry’s lips are on his and everything else goes wonderfully, blissfully blank. He pulls away far too soon, after only the sweetest bit of pressure. A whine that he will be embarrassed about later slips out of Jon’s throat as he chases after him.

Jon may have been slightly too enthusiastic, catching Gerry off guard and knocking him backwards until he falls back against the mattress. The embarrassment catches up to him, then. It’s not enough for him to get up and leave, but he ducks to bury his face in Gerry’s shoulder, still feeling the need to hide despite everything. Gerry’s chest shakes beneath him, rumbling with silent laughter as he shifts until Jon is properly cradled against him.

“You don’t have to fight for this,” he whispers into Jon’s ear, soft despite the lingering laughter. “I’m not something you have to chase after. I’m right here.”

And he is, isn’t he. It’s a wonderful thought to have.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "talk" by hozier!
> 
> if you're reading this bc you're subscribed to me and u found the link in your email box, sorry for tricking u into reading my jongerry brainrot indulgence. I hope u enjoyed it tho! I hope all of u enjoyed it, regardless of how u got here, and thanks so much for reading! if you'd like to keep up with me or my projects, u can hmu on either tumblr or twitter @judesstfrancis and @acetheticallyy, respectively.


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